


Stall Tactics

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angry John, Angry Sex, Bathroom Sex, Drug Use, Gay Bar, M/M, his last vow missing scene, which is ambiguous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2852408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The curly-haired one leaned back to whisper in Sandy's ear, and John's stomach dropped. He'd recognize that profile anywhere. He felt like a 50-gallon drum of ice water had just been poured over his head. What the fuck was Sherlock doing here? And where the fuck did he learn to dance like that?</p><p>Inspired by <a href="http://against-stars.tumblr.com/post/97014940234/imagine-drunk-sherlock-dancing-in-a-gay-bar-well">these</a> <a href="http://against-stars.tumblr.com/post/97103810569/the-natural-progression-of-drunk-sherlock-dancing">works</a> of fanart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stall Tactics

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [缓兵之计](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3700364) by [ViolaWong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWong/pseuds/ViolaWong)



> Just a warning that this hasn't been beta-ed. There are just too many things in my queue to revise, and I just wanted to write something fun. So, I make no guarantees as to the quality. If you spot any typos or grammatical errors, feel free to point them out.

John blinked slowly as he watched cubes of ice drop, plink plink plink, into a rocks glass. His brow furrowed. What did he order? It was scotch, wasn't it? He never drank scotch with ice in it. He looked back at the barman's hand, which was pouring Johnny Walker Red over the ice. So, scotch after all, though certainly not what he normally drank. Just as John lifted a finger and opened his mouth to protest, the barman slid the glass over with a wink. John frowned. He really did prefer his scotch neat, but this stuff was cheap on the scale, so the flavor wouldn't suffer all that much. Besides, the barman had snuck him a couple extra fingers. He wasn't about to complain about free liquor.

The ice pinged against the sides of the glass as John brought it to his mouth, and a few stray drops landed on his thumb. Apparently, the drinks he'd had to calm his nerves before leaving the flat hadn't quite done their job. He shifted his drink to the other hand and wrapped his lips over the side of his thumb, sucking the liquid away. As he turned away from the bar, thumb still in mouth, he caught the eye of the man next to him, who smiled at John's mouth. John pretended not to notice the lingering, appraising looks while he wiped his spit-slick thumb on his jeans and took a more successful sip of his drink. He'd have to wait for his blood alcohol level to rise a bit more before he could venture down that road.

Not that he was nervous about chatting up a man in principle. It was only that it had been years. And, he did technically have a pregnant wife, even if she did shoot his best friend. And even if that best friend was fine now, or so he said. John had to admit that he was putting a lot of trust in Sherlock, letting him venture out to Barts at all hours without him. Truth be told, he felt terribly guilty about it. It hadn’t been that long since Sherlock had weaned off his pain killers, but John also knew a restless Sherlock was impossible to live with. Not to mention that sometimes John wanted to shut up Sherlock with his cock. The last thing he needed right now would be to make his life more complicated, and sleeping with his mad, impossible, infuriating, gorgeous, fuckable flatmate was not going to do that. And after many nights of thought and a particularly egregious spill in the kitchen, John decided a quick fuck at a gay bar might be just the thing. Neither Mary nor Sherlock had to know, and it wasn’t like Mary could really be angry about it. And if he picked up someone who just happened to be a tall, thin bloke with dark, curly hair, well, there wasn’t much John could do about that.

He took a gulp of his drink and glanced at his admirer from the corner of his eye. Nope. Too much time at the gym had turned him into an upside-down Weeble. The barman was a good looking bloke, and he did gift John with extra scotch. But, John was likely to have a lot of competition. Besides, the extra liquor and the wink were both probably attempts at good tips.

John downed the rest of his drink in one go, feeling very glad that his tastebuds were already alcohol dull because this scotch tasted like piss water. There was no way what was in that bottle was actually Johnny Walker. He slammed the glass to the bartop with a grimace.

"Another?" The barman shouted, ever-so-discreetly adjusting the waistband of his trousers.

John's gaze lingered there for longer than intended before it swept up. "No," John replied. "Beer. Whatever's on tap."

The barman filled a glass, and as he slid it over, a bit of foam sloshed over the side onto his fingers. He licked each one in turn, eyes burning into John's, before turning away to the next customer. John shook his head, waiting for his brains to rearrange themselves into the proper place. He needed to step away from the bar before he did something stupid like spend too much money trying to get the barman's attention.

He slurped enough of the beer to reduce the chances of spilling below an acceptable threshold and pushed off the stool towards the dance floor. He stood at the edge, taking in the ebb and flow of bodies in various states of dress, writhing to music that was entirely not in John's taste. Nothing but loud, driving beats with not a lyric to spare. And John was suddenly overcome with the thought that this wasn't a good idea after all. Even though Sherlock was set to be at Barts until the morning, and even though he slipped in the aforementioned spill, and even though the subsequent burn of hot tea on his torso brought up vivid fantasies of taking his flatmate over his knees, this could only be a mistake. He should just go home and have a wank like a normal person. He couldn't even remember what made him think this was a good idea. Oh right, it was the expensive whiskey that he drank in what could only marginally be called revenge. And the weeks of sexual and emotional frustration.

He was just going to finish his beer, close out his tab, go home, and go to bed. And just pretend this never happened. He sipped his beer and scanned the crowd, some part of him still hopeful that he might find someone who piqued his interest. Someone with a deep voice and a mouth that just begged to be filled. Eventually, a couple dancing near the opposite side of the floor drew John's attention. He couldn't get a good look because they were facing away, but the way their bodies undulated together was mesmerizing, all long sinewy lines in tight clothing. As the sandy-haired one closest to John tangled fingers in the dark, curly hair of the other, his lips latched to a long expanse of neck. John spotted another man past them, a bit taller than the on closest to John, pressing along the front of Curly’s body. The one with curly hair reached back to squeeze Sandy's arse, spurring on the pressing and circling of groin to buttocks. John felt distinctly like he was invading on a private moment, or, he supposed, three private moments, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. The moved in a surprisingly coordinated way, bodies not grinding and bumping on each other, but flowing against each other as if one entity. John found himself torn over which man he wished to be. He brought his beer to his lips to take an absent-minded sip but nearly choked trying to swallow it past the lump that had formed in his throat. He licked his parched lips and only then noticed that his heart raced and arousal burned low and urgent, slowly rising from his groin.

The curly-haired one leaned back to whisper in Sandy's ear, and John's stomach dropped. He'd recognize that profile anywhere. He felt like a 50-gallon drum of ice water had just been poured over his head. What the fuck was Sherlock doing here? And where the fuck did he learn to dance like that? The only times John had seen even an edifice of sexuality on Sherlock, he had been flirting for a case. And even then there was an air of artificiality to it. Or maybe that was just to John. The subjects of Sherlock's flirtatious interrogations always seemed none the wiser. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on John's part. For all he knew, every time Sherlock disappeared "for a case," this was his actual destination. And he had disappeared—supposedly to Bart’s—four nights in a row. Married to his work John's ass.

Sherlock grabbed Sandy's hand and led him from the dance floor, hips swaying in dark, figure-hugging jeans artfully faded over the back pockets and fronts of the thighs. John could only think of one time Sherlock wore jeans, and they were certainly not like that. And of course he was wearing one of those shirts that made his buttons scream for mercy, the ones that were actually fastened at least, which weren’t many.

John watched them enter the toilets, and before he could register what he was doing, his beer was abandoned and his legs carried him towards the door. His jaw and fists clenched and released over and over again as he stomped his way to the loo. Once he barged through the door, attracting the gaze of several men, he had to shake out his hands and loosen his jaw. John ignored the line and the protestations of those waiting as he crouched past the row of cubicles. Finally, as John reached the penultimate cubicle in the row, he spotted what had to be Sherlock's shoes, spread wide as Sherlock sat on the toilet, legs still thankfully clad in denim. The other man with him faced the side wall, and John saw his shoes leave the floor as John pounded on the cubicle door.

"Bugger off," yelled the unfamiliar voice. Oh, fuck no.

John pounded harder, the heel of his hand rattling the door in its frame. "Sherlock," he roared.

John stopped at the sound of the latch banging from its slot. The door opened a few inches, just enough for the sandy-haired man to say, "I thought I told you to bug-"

But he was cut short when John shoved him out of the way and charged into the cubicle. Sherlock sat at the toilet seat, sleeve rolled up around his bicep, as John seethed. John glanced over at the loo paper holder. A scorched spoon and a lighter. He fucking knew it. His mouth turned up into a rictus as he looked back at Sherlock, nodding his head towards the paraphernalia. "What happened to Barts?"

"John, you're drunk. Go home."

"What's happening here?" Mr. Sandy Man interjected. "Is this your boyfriend? He can join us if he wants."

At that, John swept up the tools and shoved them into the man's chest, pushing him out of the cubicle and slamming the door behind him. Once he re-latched the door, he crowded into Sherlock's space, trapping one of Sherlock's knees between his own.

As John tilted Sherlock's head back and opened his eyelids, Sherlock complained, "For God's sake, John. What do you think you're doing?"

"How much did you take?" John checked the other eye. And while, yes, the cubicle was a bit dim, Sherlock's eyes were dilated as fuck. He grasped Sherlock's wrist and shook his watch from his sleeve.

"I haven't taken anything."

John threw down Sherlock's arm. "Bullshit."

"Do you have to be so dramatic?"

"Dramatic?" John laughed. "I catch you seconds away from shooting up God knows what—cocaine if I'm going by the symptoms—and you have the nerve to call me dramatic?"

Sherlock shushed John, and John shot him the dirtiest look he could manage.

"Stand up. Turn around."

Sherlock didn't move for a moment, but under John's continued scrutiny, he stood, peering down his nose at John. "What do you think you're doing?"

John spun him around and grabbed each hand in turn to make him clasp them over the top of the barriers to each side. "I'm going to pat you down."

As John crouched behind Sherlock, Sherlock turned his shoulders back, dropping one hand from the barrier. "I wasn't going to use it, John. It's for a case."

John vaulted to his feet, repositioning Sherlock before growling in his ear. "You're bloody lucky I haven't called Mycroft." He kicked the inside of Sherlock's ankles. "Spread 'em."

Sherlock sighed dramatically but spread his legs. "There's really no need for this. I don't have anything on me."

"Because we all know how well known you are for your integrity." Fuck, that was low, but John shook it off. After all, Sherlock probably deserved it. Who knew how long he had been hiding this? Who knew how long John had been oblivious?

John took off Sherlock's shoes in turn, shaking them out and checking the socks, before slipping them back on. He ran his hands up the outside of Sherlock's jeans and over the back pockets, where he found lumps in the fabric. He reached into the right pocket to find a handful of business cards and folded napkins. He flipped through them. "Looks like you were pretty popular tonight."

John ignored the spike of jealousy in his chest as he dropped the cards in the floor. He pulled Sherlock's wallet from the other pocket, flipping through notes and receipts and checking for suspicious lumps. Nothing out of the ordinary. So he continued, running his hands down the backs of Sherlock's legs. And he ignored Sherlock's gasps as he checked along the inseam. After he finished checking the front of the legs of Sherlock's jeans, John stood and yanked down the roll in Sherlock's sleeve, checking both sleeves, the cuffs, and then the collar of Sherlock's shirt. His heart sounded like a bass drum--no, an entire fucking drum line--in his ears.

"John," Sherlock murmured, his head drooping forward. "Please."

John yanked Sherlock's head back up by his hair then ran his hands methodically over the planes of Sherlock's back. "We can do it this way, or I can call Mycroft and you can go pee in a jar. I might just have a go at slapping you this time."

Sherlock's mouth shut with an audible clack, and John stepped forward to check the rest of Sherlock's shirt. He pressed his palms under Sherlock's armpits and slid them down. As he did, Sherlock took a step back, though he kept his hands braced in the same position, bringing his arse into contact with John's groin. John reached the bottom of Sherlock's shirt and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Sherlock's jeans, jerking Sherlock back against him. As he ran his hands up the front of Sherlock's shirt, he growled, "Is this what you've been doing when you disappear for hours at a time? Letting strangers shoot you up?"

John opened the button of Sherlock's breast pocket and slipped his hand inside. Sherlock pushed back against him. "I told you. It was for a case."

At that, John grabbed a handful of curls and yanked Sherlock's head back until Sherlock's ear was level with John's mouth. "Fuck your case," he snapped and pushed Sherlock's head forward as he let go, checking the last bit of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock's back rose and fell with quick, ragged breaths. His breath came sharp and loud with just a hint of a whimper. John froze. Oh fuck, he took things too far, and this was careening into not good territory. No, he was well past that boundary. John lifted his hands from Sherlock's body. Technically, he still hadn't checked Sherlock's groin, but it was clearly time to apologize and get the fuck out.

"Keep going," Sherlock gruffed. Oh, God.

John swallowed hard, licked parched lips, and tried to hear his own thoughts over his pounding heart. "What?"

Sherlock pushed back against John again. "You haven't finished checking me out. And there's also the matter of what you plan to do with me when you're finished."

John stood frozen, tongue traversing his mouth again and again, ear cocked towards Sherlock. Did he really just hear what he thought he heard?

After a moment, Sherlock huffed. He dropped a hand from its braced position to unbutton his fly. "Here. I'll help you get started."

John, startled back into cognizance, slapped Sherlock's hand away. "Put that back where it belongs." Sherlock complied, gripping the divider as John thrust his fists into Sherlock's front pockets. He pulled a key to the flat and three foil packets from Sherlock's right pocket. A condom and two packets of lube. "Well," John scoffed as he set the packets aside. "Thank God for small miracles."

As John pulled Sherlock's mobile from the other pocket, Sherlock dipped his head to peer at the packets. A message lit up Sherlock's home screen.

"Gimme a call after things blow over with your boyfriend," John read. "Is this the man I kicked out of here?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the message before stating, "Yes."

"Jesus, Sherlock. How long have you known him? Or did you just meet tonight?"

John slammed the phone down next to the contents of Sherlock's other pocket. Sherlock winced. With a thick swallow, Sherlock finally replied, "Tonight."

"I thought you of all people would be smart enough not to share a needle with a total stranger," John huffed, pushing back his hair. What had Sherlock gotten himself into? And how had John not noticed?

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I brought my own needle."

"You brought your own needle."

"Yes, and thanks to you, it's gone."

John's jaw clenched. His fist spasmed at Sherlock's side, and it was all he could do not to thump it against Sherlock's thigh. "I thought you weren't using."

Sherlock's jaw clacked closed. Finally, something besides self-righteous lies. Just one more thing before John could be satisfied that Sherlock didn't have anything stashed on him. And then would be the tedious process of combing the flat. Fuck.

John popped open the button and ripped open the zip of Sherlock's jeans. "I can't believe you're putting me through this again."

Sherlock’s hips jerked. "John, I-"

"Save it." John shoved the denim down Sherlock's arse then rolled the waistband of cotton pants between his fingers, checking for lumps or breaks in the seams.

"You're angry."

"Brilliant deduction there." John pressed his palms down Sherlock's buttocks. Then he checked along the hem as he did the waistband.

"Why do you care so much?"

"Seriously?" John dropped his hands with a huff. "Because I'm your friend, Sherlock."

"No."

John blinked. What the fuck did he just say? "No?"

"No." Sherlock peered over his shoulder, hands still braced on the dividers. "You're jealous."

John pushed on Sherlock's shoulder, making him face forward again. "Jealous of what?"

As John hooked his thumbs into Sherlock's waistband to examine the front, Sherlock drawled, "Jealous of the men whose numbers were in my pocket. Jealous of the one I brought in here. Why did you break down the door in the first place, John? You couldn't have known the intention was to get high. You must have assumed we came in here for sex. And you didn't want that to happen. Why was that, John? Why should you care with whom I have sex?"

Though John froze during Sherlock's speech, he resolutely continued his search in silence once it was complete. The last question hung in the air, but he wasn't about to admit to anything of the sort when it would only be used to humiliate him. But, as he neared the center of Sherlock's waistband, he couldn't help but notice how the fabric below it was pulled tight. His hand tremored, he hoped imperceptibly, before he finally pulled away. And it was then that the smog of John's anger burned off enough to really notice the way he was slotted between Sherlock's arse cheeks, the way his cock strained and pulsed painfully against his zipper, the way his heart pounded in his ears and his eyesight went fuzzy with a disturbing mix of rage and sexual excitement.

"Hit a nerve, have I, doctor?" Sherlock pushed back against John. "You and your sanctimony. So boring. Why don't you just get on with it and take what you want?"

John growled. "Shut up, or I'll put your mouth to better use."

Even from the back, John could see the smirk on Sherlock. "I have to say I'm impressed. I thought it would take much longer to get here. How did you know I was here? Did you follow me? I know this isn't really your scene."

John spun Sherlock around, jeans still bunched at his thighs. His eyes burned into John's like a challenge, and when Sherlock's tongue dragged across his lower lip, John couldn't take it anymore. He clapped both hands over Sherlock's shoulders and pushed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and sunk to his knees.

Sherlock's lips hovered near John's zip, and this time it was John's turn to brace himself. God, that was a sight to behold. John's breathing turned fast and shallow, and his cock throbbed against his restraints. And Sherlock hadn't done anything yet. The sounds that had been blocked out by the rushing blood in John's ears slowly started to filter in. Muffled grunts and moans floated over the thin walls, and though the accompanying sounds of flushes and running water weren't objectively sexy, it somehow only heightened the experience. Made the sight of Sherlock staring expectantly up at him all the more exciting.

"Well?" He asked, proud of the amount of frog he kept out of his voice. "What are you waiting for?"

Sherlock eased John's belt from its buckle and let it hang from belt loops. As he popped the button and pulled down the zip, he said, "You surprise me John. Who knew you had so much bite behind your bark? And with a pregnant wife."

Sherlock tutted, but John cut it off by fisting Sherlock's curls and pulling back his head. "What did I tell you about talking?"

John used his free hand to push down his pants enough to free his cock. A bead of precome formed at the tip, and Sherlock opened his mouth like a baby bird. "Fuck," he gruffed, rubbing his glans over Sherlock's lower lip. Sherlock's tongue flicked against John's slit, making John shudder and his knees go weak. Bracing his free hand at the top of the cubicle, John pressed forward just a bit, groaning as Sherlock closed his lips around him and swirled his tongue over the head. "Is this what you want? To suck my cock in the men's room? Where anyone can hear? Get those expensive jeans filthy?"

Sherlock's only response was a low moan as he slid farther down John's cock. He ran his hands up John's thighs, fingers tickling through the fabric. After too long, Sherlock's fingers finally settled on John's arse. He kneaded the flesh, urging on John, guiding John farther into his mouth, encouraging him to thrust. "God, you'd just let me fuck your throat, wouldn't you?"

John watched the perfect heart shape of Sherlock's lips slide up and down his length, his mouth just a shade lighter than the dusky rose of John's cock. They both glistened with saliva, and Sherlock's tongue was doing filthy things with the underside of John's cock. He felt just the slightest graze of teeth on his corona and nearly lost it. His knees buckled beneath him, he heard himself make the most desperate, shuddering groan. Oh fuck, this was too good, but as much as John had fantasized about coming in Sherlock's mouth or painting his skin with it, that wasn't what he wanted in that moment. So, he pulled out of Sherlock's mouth, rubbing himself on swollen lips until he could gain the self control to step back. "Stand up and turn around."

As Sherlock stood, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and wasn't that just sinful. The corner of Sherlock's mouth caught on the skin of his wrist, dragging his lip along, and John just had to taste it. He gripped the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down, capturing Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth, sucking, licking, biting. Sherlock pressed close to him and opened his mouth eagerly as John's lips latch onto his. John thrust his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, exploring lips and tongue and teeth, taking everything he wanted from the kiss. And as he finally pulled away, he nipped at Sherlock's tongue. "Don't think this means I'm not still mad at you."

"Of course not," Sherlock panted.

"Turn around."

As Sherlock did so, John grabbed a packet of lube and ripped it open with his teeth. He yanked down Sherlock's pants before squeezing some onto his fingers. Placing a hand at the small of Sherlock's back, John instructed, "Lean over some more."

Sherlock lowered himself, bracing his hands on the back wall. His back arched as he pressed his arse skyward, and John just had to touch. He glided his hand over soft curls, down a long nape, and down cotton softer than the finest sheets John had ever slept him. Finally, his fingers skated over Sherlock's arse. He pressed his palm to one side of Sherlock's cleft, spreading it open before sliding a slick finger over Sherlock's hole.

His first finger went in easily, sliding along silky walls, so he didn't waste any time in adding a second. Sherlock hissed at the intrusion, and John stopped for a moment until Sherlock groaned, "More."

John thrust his fingers, watching them slide in and out of Sherlock's body until he was in all the way to his knuckles. Fuck, that was gorgeous. He circled his fingers inside Sherlock, testing and stretching the muscles. Oh, this was going to feel so good.

John curled his fingers, finding the hard knot of Sherlock's prostate. He rubbed circles against it as he copied the motion with his thumb on Sherlock's perineum. "I see all those prostate exams have come in handy," Sherlock said, sounding composed and detached, but the way his voice broke at the end gave him away.

"Sorry?" John pressed his thumb more firmly against Sherlock's perineum, and Sherlock moaned loud enough that someone out in the club walking past the door to the loo would hear.

"You're quite good at this for someone who's never done it before."

John smirked. "What makes you think I've never done it before?"

"Oh," Sherlock gasped as John removed his fingers. As Sherlock deflated at the loss of contact, John rolled on the condom and lubed it with the second packet.

"You think I'm an open book, don't you?" John asked as he lined himself up, eased his cock past Sherlock's first sphincter. He thrust slowly, making his way a little farther with each forward push. Jesus fuck, Sherlock was tight, but the way Sherlock shuddered and rocked against him, John was sure he was moving too slowly for his partner. Finally, John's hips pressed against Sherlock's arse. He leaned over Sherlock's body and lifted his hips enough to rub his frenulum against Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock yelp, groaned, panted, and John gruffed, "I have plenty of surprises left."

John repeated the motion again and again, teasing Sherlock's prostate. He moved slowly, never using a regular rhythm. If Sherlock knew when it was coming, he could habituate to it. No, John didn't want Sherlock complacent. John wanted him begging, wrecked, broken. And just when Sherlock thought he couldn't take any more, John would pound him hard and fast. Make Sherlock scream his name so that every man behind every card and napkin and every other man in the club would know.

John relished the sudden arch in Sherlock's back each time John brushed his prostate. Relished the way he dropped his head afterwards, the deep rise and fall of his back, the moisture gathering in his hair and in a line down his back. Sherlock reached to stroke his cock, but when John tutted at him, he placed it back on the wall. But the tension was building. Sherlock's head didn't drop as far, his fingers dug into the wall, his breathing grew ragged, shuddering. John knew enough about Sherlock to know that it was only a matter of time before Sherlock lashed out. Go on, he thought, give me the best you've got.

"Not so--ah!--not gay as we thought, hmm?"

John chuckled, slipping his hands under Sherlock's shirt, sliding them up his torso. "A bit obvious."

As John skimmed his hand over Sherlock's chest, rucking up his shirt and raising goose pimples, Sherlock groaned, "Just fuck me."

Swallowing hard, John laid his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Promise me something."

"What?"

John's hips rocked despite his efforts to keep them still. His hands roamed bare flesh. "Never do this again. I already thought I lost you twice. Don't you dare do it to me again."

"Fine."

"I'm serious Sherlock." The undulation of John's hips gained a regular rhythm, and a whimper managed to make its way past his lips. Sherlock just felt so good. Each place where skin touched skin sang.

"So am I."

With that, Sherlock grabbed onto John's arse, squeezing and urging him forward, and all was lost. John groaned. His hips moved of their own accord, slapping into Sherlock's, his hands finding rippled muscles, erect nipples. He rolled the taut, pebbled skin between his fingers. Sherlock gasped and pressed himself into John's touch.

"Sherlock," John breathed. "Ah, fuck, that's good. How does it feel to you?"

Sherlock replied with a long groan that sounded vaguely like, "John."

John grabbed Sherlock's hips, pulling their bodies together. As his hands ventured to the front of Sherlock's thighs, John said, "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this, Sherlock? Fuck, the way you walk around the flat in a dressing gown or a sheet. And your ridiculous tight shirts." His hands wandered to the inside of Sherlock's thighs, sliding up to fondle his bollocks. "Oh. And your neck. I want to lick it like an ice cream cone."

Moaning at the stream of adulation, Sherlock arched his back, placing his neck in easy reach. John, not one to waste an opportunity, latched his lips to the nape, licking up the taste of salt from his skin, inhaling the heady odor of sex and soap and smoke.

"Oh God, I'm close. Are you close?"

"Yes," Sherlock panted. "Yes. John. Touch me."

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's shaft, sweeping his thumb over a bead of precome. Sherlock's glans was already slick with it, and John found himself wishing he could see it. He sucked the skin at the base of Sherlock's neck between his teeth. Another bead of precome formed in Sherlock's cock. This time, John cupped his palm over it, massaging the glans. He felt Sherlock's legs trembling. Sherlock's cock pulsed and leaked against John's hand.

"Yeah, that's it, love," John cooed, his own orgasm coiled low in his belly, about to snap. "Come for me."

And then Sherlock went still, a wrecked moan forced from his mouth, his cock growing impossibly harder before throbbing and jerking in John's hand, spilling over John's palm. His body clenched and spasmed around John, and moments later John came, Sherlock's name pouring half-formed from his body.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the terrible punny title.


End file.
